democratic domes and anarchical gyres

Philip Gordon

July 28, 2014

when you’re offered a choice, it’s easy to be entranced by alternatives. unlimited agency! and even tho you’re picking one path of three, you end up on the same road, starting in the colour of nowhere and ending maybe one day in your name among ephemera and dead batteries. what starts as one decision ends up as a thousand—the mechanism of every second pulling you in uncountable directions. the progress of spinning in place, the trek through the same footprints you’ve worn into memory—and then you open your eyes & nothing is the same. the world vanishes by white out, in an instant, leaves you a pocketful less certain of your purpose, and the memory of heat and light vanished in bad decisions you don’t remember making; all because you wanted to decide. all along a route you lose in lightning, messianics and the treachery of swirls and circles pulling your mind in two separate directions until every direction is so twisted that the star is a saviour and the ocean is singing and you remember something very bad about burning that you never want to remember again—and sometimes it stops. and one time, it stops. and you open your eyes. and you see how a single second stretched out to lead you here—and seconds matter. and so do you.